


Before Our Blood

by scantmercy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scantmercy/pseuds/scantmercy
Summary: One can live with shame, he thinks. It’s blood you can’t live without.





	Before Our Blood

 

"And will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"

– HBP

 

“We have no choice, our choice was made

Before our blood.”

– Before We Mothernaked Fell

 

Night, and a hard one. The summers seem to be as harsh as the winters, lately. Cold and rain for days, and a wind to bend every tree in the garden. Draco's footsteps are quiet in the corridor. Bare feet, cold ground: on good days the sting is enough to chase away the panic. But good days are rare, and panic is a devil of a bedfellow to have. Insomnia crouches over his pillow like a patient nurse. Some nights he does nothing but sleepwalk through the house, bruised and exhausted and no more alive than a ghost. Even through the slits of sleep his brain turns on him like a maddened crow – pecking at skin, etching grey faces and bloodied hands into his eyelids. Dark eyes and battered flesh, men with snakes’ faces for heads and open jaws ready to snap, snap, snap, devour all. All magic and charms and spells, all gobbled up in black mouths of neurosis. And nightmares are no better than animals: shun them often enough and they grow vicious and wolfish. Every night is fanged, now, every dream scythed. He doesn’t even bother making sure everyone’s left before padding across the corridors any longer. Mother might be right, her  _have to be careful_  and  _not safe here anymore_  might be sound, but whoever is still healing the scabs of the last meeting in an empty room can hardly be worse than the jaws and teeth and curses behind his eyes. The library door makes no sound as Draco pushes it open.

 

It takes him a moment to realise it’s not empty.

 

Severus’ head lifts from the desk, eyebrow quirked as if he wasn't the one occupying someone else’s house in the middle of the night. Arrogant bastard. Sometimes he seems no better than the rest of them.

 

“I didn’t know you were here,” Draco says. It sounds more like an accusation than an apology.

 

Severus turns a paper in his hand, sets the quill back on the inkstand. The candles flicker in the chandelier.

He's discarded his coat somewhere, and the spill of his hair is India ink against his shirt. The fabric hugs his body tightly enough for the sharpness of his bones to be startling, and when he looks up his cheeks are pink from the fire. Draco fixes his eyes on the window behind him.

 

“Macnair is due back at seven o’clock. It seemed rather pointless to head home, considering the hour.”

 

“I see. I don’t suppose you mind me–”

 

Severus waves a hand. “It’s your home.”

 

A bark of hollow laughter curdles in Draco’s throat as the door snaps shut. The Manor has never been less his home than it is now. A proper hostel is what they've made of it, and he’s quite certain that those are bloodstains on the Egyptian carpet. The carpet he used to play on as a child. He avoids stepping on it, most days. Avoids touching anything any more than he needs to. It hardly seems possible how happy he used to be here just two years ago. The drag of his footsteps is noiseless against the stone floor.

 

“I suppose you are to be congratulated,” he says, if only because it seems polite to say something. Not that Severus Snape has ever seemed acquainted with the notion of politeness. He used to admire his disregard for the opinions of others. Fools and dimwits who couldn’t hold a candle to him if you lit it up for them, Severus was quite right to show them nothing but contempt. Draco presses his tongue against his palate, crushing the taste of ash that rises at the back of his mouth. He used to admire a lot of things that have been trying to kill him, lately.

 

“That would be unnecessary,” Severus says. 

 

“It wouldn't. You deserve it. The others, however… The Carrows have nothing to teach any of us, you realise.” 

 

“They have some–” Severus’ mouth twists “–practical knowledge of the dark arts.”

 

“Which I’m sure they’ll use generously on the entire student body at large. Neither of them is fit to teach. You know it. It’s a joke, isn’t it.”

 

Severus’ shadow stretches up the window. “I assure you the subject puts me in no laughing mood,” he says. “But unless you would rather it be Greyback breathing down the students’ necks, this year, the Carrows will have to do.”

 

 “Gre—” Draco’s mouth dries. “You’re mad to allow this.”

There might even be a threat, in Severus’ words, he doesn't entirely dismiss the possibility.Greyback is about the worst of the entire rotten lot, and no one has ever pretended otherwise. 

 

 “This isn’t about what  _I_  do or don’t allow, Draco. One would have hoped you’d learnt that by now.”

 

“You’re Headmaster, aren't you.”

 

“Even so, my powers are not quite so limitless as you may imagine.”

 

“You’re His favourite, his–”

 

“I, Mr Malfoy, follow orders just as closely as you do.”

 

Draco’s nails dig into his palms. He doubts that’s the truth. Doubts he would want to hear the truth were Severus willing to speak it. Fine lies beat ugly truths every time, in his book. “You’ve seen how they leer,” he says. “Amycus, he–”

 

“Yes, I do possess adequate eyesight.”

 

“And it simply doesn’t interest you in the slightest, I imagine.” The sight of a few helpless students might even amuse him, all considered. Might prove diverting entertainment. He might just be that sort of wretch.

 

A muscle quivers in Severus’ cheek. “I would have said my actions indicated more than a modicum of interest in your well-being,” he says, and Draco nearly laughs.

 

“Didn't hurt that my well-being made you Headmaster, did it? I'm not an idiot, you know.”

 

Severus merely looks at him — eyes dark, face inscrutable. “Yet you speak extraordinarily like one,” he says at last, and you could hear a pin drop in the perfect stillness of his voice.

 

Draco's teeth grit. He has seen the expression often enough — Merlin knows there have been few days in the past decade he hasn’t heard that same frost in his voice — but it’s always been directed at idiotic Hufflepuffs, bumbling Gryffindors, or irritating Ravenclaws. Not him. It’s that much more humiliating to find himself at the other end of it.

 

“Do forgive me for looking out for myself,” he says. The window is ice against his palm, his hand not even steady.

 

There’s a moment of stillness, then Severus says, “He won’t come near you, Draco,” and his voice is so soft the words are almost lost to the wind.

 

“Won’t he? You’re more of an optimist than I am if you truly believe that.”

 

“Optimism has nothing to do with it. I’ll have a word with him. With both of them.”

 

“A word. You think a word will—” Draco laughs, loud and feral, a sound befitting the storm.

 

“They won’t– harm– you,” Severus says, and his voice is low, his words a sharp staccato.

 

“Because a word will prevent them. That's your brilliant plan.”

 

The candles flicker above them, low and lilting as a heartbeat. Severus’ lips are a pale line. “I’ll do what I can,” he says.

 

“Of course you will. And if it turns out that your powers are not quite so limitless, that’s just my bad luck, isn’t it.”

 

“I’ve sworn, you damned child. When I say I’ll do–”

 

“He's dead, whatever you’ve sworn to do is not an issue anymore. Stop treating me like—”

 

Severus steps forward. A single step, but something in the bloodless set of his lips, the February frost of his face, makes Draco’s throat dry, his mouth shut. The snap of teeth is the only sound left as the echo of his voice fades.

 

“I believe I said I’ll do  _all_  I can, Mr Malfoy,” Severus says. “I won’t repeat myself.”

 

The windows vibrate with the echo of thunder.

 

Draco’s head shakes. “And I should just trust you, should I? Would you, in my place? Nothing forces you to give a damn any longer.”  The words are choked in his throat and he knows he’s all but begging for mercy, knows he should have more pride than that, but it’s not enough, empty promises and pithy reassurances are not even protection enough against the Carrows and once school starts again he’ll be alone and outnumbered and as soon as his back will hit a wall there’ll be–

 

Panic shoots through Draco’s veins.

 

Severus says, “You have nothing to–”

 

“Fear?” The laugh drags against the walls of Draco’s throat as if Severus had plunged an arm there and forced it out of him. “I’ve watched my father tortured, humiliated, behind bars. I have  _nothing_  left but fear.”

 

Severus’ eyes flicker from his face to his hands. They’re twitching, he knows, but there’s not a single damned thing Draco can do about it and he’s past trying to hide it.

“Good," Severus says. "Fear might just keep you alive a while longer.”

 

“Good?  _Good_? Having the Carrows at Hogwarts is just another splendid lesson of yours, then, is it.”

 

“The Carrows are simply inevitable. There’s nothing I can do about them or Hogwarts or any of your Master’s wishes. What I can do is try to keep you safe, and I don’t entirely know why I’m fool enough to attempt that.”

 

A spasm pulls at Draco’s arm. Shivering now, along with the twitching, and it’s pathetic, pathetic enough to make Severus sigh, press a hand to the back of the chair, say, “They won’t touch you, Draco.” 

 

“Yes, I suppose you'll tell them the Dark Lord forbids it.”

 

“If necessary.”

 

Draco’s fists clench. “Will you.” He doesn’t believe that. Doesn’t believe him. He can’t allow himself to, Aunt Bella has branded that lesson on him bone-deep enough.

 

Severus’ glare says _You’re too much of an idiot for me to waste my time on._ “Sometimes I'm not certain you fully grasp the meaning of the words Unbreakable Vow, Draco,” he says.

 

“The Vow is over, whatever further profits you’re still hoping to reap from it—”

 

“The Vow bound me to more than just assist you with your task, you wretched idiot.”

 

“It— more?” Draco‘s breath is shallow. His mouth moves again but no sound comes out of it. He’s grateful for the wall, for once. For a modicum of support. Not enough to make his brain work, though. Not enough to calm him.

 

“Did you really imagine your mother would restrain her damned self to demands of assistance?” Severus says. “That she would go against the Dark Lord's orders for the barest minimum profit? Or do you truly think so little of your own mother?”

The corners of his mouth curl as he speaks. It’s bitter and bloodless and entirely familiar, and Draco should be appalled at feeling relief creeping up his neck at the sight, but some days Severus' sneers are the only thing in this house that is still familiar, and he can only stare and breathe as Severus snarls words into his face. He should have more dignity than that. Should have some self-respect. Some days he’s not sure he has even any blood left in his veins.

 

“She trusts you,” he says after a moment, and his voice cracks even through the anger. “And you hope to reap gratitude as well as glory. The most powerful of currencies, gratitude, is it not?”

 

Severus’ sneer is toothed. “Indeed. The famous Malfoy gratitude. So powerful thousands would risk certain death to secure a whiff of it.”

 

“Our influence seemed to have suited you just fine for twenty years.”

 

“Then perhaps you should ask yourself why I would risk the Dark Lord’s wrath for something I already have,” Severus snaps.

 

“I have no idea what you hope to–”

 

“I vowed to protect you, you cretin. To keep you from harm. To hand my life over should a single hair of your head be touched. No expiration date. Is that transparent enough for that primitive brain of yours to comprehend?”

 

Another lie. A bold-faced one, one even a first year Hufflepuff could see through. The vehemence with which he wants to believe it is entirely childish. “You vowed to _help_ me. Why would you consent to anything—”

 

“Because I care, you damned milksop. Because, unlike your demented aunt and those half-witted gargoyles that pass for your friends, it matters to me whether you keep drawing breath or sink under the earth and rot into worms.” And something snaps in him as he says it. His fists clench, his eyes burn, and he steps closer, his breath a scant inch from Draco’s mouth.

 

They're close enough for Draco to smell the brandy and smoke on his breath, see the shadows under his eyes. His face is pale and lined, and so thin he doesn't look more substantial than a shadow. He’s always had a knack for not looking human, Severus Snape.

 

Draco swallows. “I don’t believe you.” It's not convincing even to his own ears.

 

“I don't care a half-farthing if you do,” Severus says.

 

“I don't think I even trust you.”

 

“That, you may want to realise, is not my problem.”

 

“Make it your problem, then, damn you. Give me a reason to.”

 

“I owe you no–”

 

He grabs him because it’s the only move he can make. Because he is standing so close no air fits between them and he’s warm and solid and Severus, goddamn it, he’s Severus, he’s never trusted anyone the way he’s trusted Severus, never looked up to anyone the way he’s looked up to him, never wanted to clutch anyone to his chest like a cross the way he’s wanted—

 

“Show me,” he says. He doesn’t care that his own voice is rough, and his fingers are crumpling the fabric of Severus’ shirt, and Severus is hardly moving, hardly breathing. The tickle of black hair against his cheeks raises hairs on his arms. He leans in, close-mouthed, shut-eyed, and Severus’ lips are cracked and warm and dry. Draco digs fingernails into his waist, drags his teeth across his lower lip until blood pours out. Severus' gasp is almost startled.

 

He’s thought about it. Times when a baritone drifted across the corridors in just that perfect drawl or black eyes brightened with the kind of quiet approval that made Draco’s lungs clench as if before an applauding crowd– thought of sliding a hand up Severus’ jaw, pressing his lips to the side of his mouth. It would be slow and reverent, he’d thought. He would kiss him like a priest kisses a statue.

 

But Severus is sharp against him, sharper than he’d believed, all clean angles and jutting bones, and Draco has never dared imagine just how warm his skin might be, how bony fingers might curl around his waist, clutch at his hips, a gasp strangled at the back of his throat. The sound alone could have made him hard. Draco presses against him, and it’s brandy and smoke and blood singeing across his skin, and Severus’ chest shifting against his own. Draco leans into the hand against his jaw.

 

Severus breathes out, says, “Draco.” His voice cracks around the word.

 

Draco clings to him. “I’m yours then, am I not? Your charge, your responsibility. Yours.”

 

“This is exactly the reason–”

 

He digs his nails into Severus’ scalp, rocks his hips until their bones slide together and Severus’ eyes slide shut, and it’s so easy not to think with Severus’ hands on his hips and Severus’ breath against his throat, and he only wants more, more skin, more heat, more gasps. He's done nothing but watch him for so long he could chart the cartography of his body in the dark – the sharpness of his cheekbones, the ridges of his wrists, the arch of his eyebrows, the paleness of his skin. He slides a hand between them, traces the outline of his cock through his robe. Says none of the things he’s imagined he’d say to him.

 

“Don’t pretend you don’t want it.”

 

For a moment there’s only the wind, and it thrashes against the windows until it seems they’ll crash. Then the edge of the desk scrapes against his spine, teeth slide across his neck, fingers pressing on his hips, and Draco gasps, arches into it, into the tug of hands and mouth and breath, and he’s already so fucking hard, burning under his clothes, and Severus’ tongue drags along his palate, across his teeth, his breath hot and unsteady, his hands so tight there’ll be bruises in a few hours. He doesn’t care. He groans, writhes against him, and the twitching almost stops, the panic almost recedes, all thoughts disappearing behind the scent of yarrow and hoarhound that always seems to cling to Severus’ clothes and the feeling of skin and tongue and teeth and Severus, Merlin, Severus.

 

“This is entirely inappropriate, you do realise,” Severus says, but it’s only a gasp against Draco’s mouth, and his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. Draco can barely hear his own voice over the stab of want.

 

“Hardly less appropriate than two apes in teaching robes.”

 

Severus’ fingers tighten on his waist. “Is this what this is about? Bargaining?”

 

There are very few things that aren’t about bargaining, in Draco’s opinion, and only dizzy-eyed idealists would pretend otherwise. But Severus’ hiss still rings in his mind, and if he hasn’t lied, if–

“I thought you’d already sworn. I hardly need to bargain with you now, do I?”

 

There’s no reply. Only a clenching of the jaw and a glint of black hair under the light of the candles. But Severus’ breath is still laboured, his eyes still dark. Draco thinks he can feel his heart beat underneath his robe. It’s not steady.

 

“I want you,” Draco breathes. He had not even meant to say it. And he feels the sneer against his mouth, the words, “Don't you mean _I need you_?” nearly hissed against his lips.

 

He shakes his head. All the times he thought of it, all his schoolboy fantasies– carefulness and reverence and praise– and there wasn’t a single truth in any of them. It couldn’t be any other way, not with Severus Snape. And he’d rather have Severus rough and sneering than anyone else beaming down at him.“No. I want you. I  _want_  you.”

 

It's a ruin of hands and teeth, of trembling blood and trembling muscles, and Severus’ hands slide under his shirt, trace the lines of his ribcage as he lifts him up onto the desk, hipbones digging against his stomach. Draco wraps his thighs around his waist, breathes “Severus,” against the curve of his throat, and “Please” against the sharp jut of his jaw, and “Please” into his hair.

 

Severus’ hips jerk. “Do you have any idea–” cocks sliding together through their robes “–how entirely maddening you are?”

 

Draco shakes his head, bites his lower lip. “Show me.”

 

Severus’ laugh is a snarl. It’s doubtful whether the man is capable of any other kind of laughter but with the weight of his cock against his hip Draco honestly can’t bring himself to give a damn. He can’t remember the last time he wanted anything besides making it through the day alive. Severus’ belt thuds onto the floor, metal glinting against the light of the chandelier, and Draco rakes his nails up his back, digs his fingers into his skin, hopes for bruises. One more mark between them won’t kill them. And he wants to see him blackened and burning, wants to feel the crush of bones against his body, wants–

 

Severus hisses, sharp and pained. His hips stutter, mouth opening against Draco’s throat, teeth and tongue seeming to slice him alive. He’d let him, Draco thinks. Just now, he’d let him. Let him open him up and slide into him and sink his teeth into muscle and bone and marrow.

 

Severus’ mouth moves across his skin. There’s no discerning the words, but the gusts of hot breath send shivers down Draco’s back, make him tighten his legs around Severus’ body, twist his fingers into his hair, rock into his rhythm.

 

“Draco.”

 

It’s just a word. But Severus’ voice is broken and desperate, nothing like he’s ever heard it, and Draco moans, pushes at what feels like miles of shirt and trousers – so damned unnecessary, who needs that much fabric on him – wanting skin and heat and Severus’s hand around his cock, and his name on his lips again, again, again. A ripple of magic whistles down his skin. He can feel the hem of Severus’ shirt brushing against his naked thighs as his trousers drop to the floor, can feel the callous in his hand, the heat of his prick as Severus curls his fingers around their cocks, presses a thumb against his tip, says, “Fuck,” and “Draco,” and “Fuck.”

 

Draco shudders. He’s sure they must be waking the entire household – Mother, Dark Lord and all – but the muscles of Severus’ back shift under his hands and Severus’ cock slides against his own and bare need strikes him howling. Severus’ jaw is clenched when he looks up. He can feel him choking back groans, can feel the hum of want in the coil of his body. It seems hardly more real than his daydreams. But Severus looks down at him, black-eyed and starved and _here_.

“You’ve never had– any bloody idea– how not to get under my skin,” he grits out, and his mouth is hard against Draco’s, tongue sliding against his, all blood and spit and hunger, and when his thumb presses against the head of Draco’s cock, it’s too much.

 

He comes like a shattering of glass.

 

Severus buries his face against his throat, licks the edge of his collarbone. His teeth slice into the flesh when he comes. Warmth trickles down Draco’s throat and stomach. He doesn’t let go.

 

The fire has nearly died when his breath settles, the wind has yet to stop howling. Severus’ mouth is soft and wet against his temple, and Draco brushes a strand of hair from his face. He’d expected him to stand, straighten his robe, say, “You understand this will never happen again, Mr Malfoy.”

 

He only lies there.

 

“This wasn’t necessary,” he says after a moment.

 

It takes Draco a second to piece the line of his thoughts. His own are scattered along burnt brain wires and inches of skin that aren’t even his own.

 

“I wanted to.”

 

Severus snorts. “You’ll forgive me for not believing that.”

 

“Don’t you?”

 

Severus gives him a wary look. His thumb presses against the inside of Draco’s wrist as if marking a page in a book. Even now he’s watchful, Draco thinks. Even now guarded. No one would call him beautiful, but beauty is static and predictable – an easy charm, a second-year spell – and the frost of Severus’ blizzard is everywhere, like wind, like magic, like God.

 

“You wanted–  _this,_ ” Severus says.

 

“Yes. Didn’t you?”

 

“What I wanted is of no–”

 

“What you wanted was to feel human for a moment. I think we understand each other well in that regard.”

 

Severus’ mouth curls. “Any of the mindless imbeciles that flock to your side would have done the trick all too well. This was–”

 

“How I wanted it. How I’ll want it again.”

 

Severus offers no answer. A sheen of sweat lines the planes of his back, and Draco thinks of leaning down, running his tongue along the muscles there. He doesn’t.

 

“You’re a damned fool,” Severus says against his throat. It’s almost gentle.

 

Draco’s fingertip traces the pattern of a faint line in his temple. It’s white and pale, and you wouldn’t see it if you weren’t standing this close. He feels him shiver against him. Some still believe no good thing ever comes out of a war, he thinks. They’re idiots. Every last one of them, no more brains than a goose.

 

“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I’ll stay that way. It’s war now, isn’t it? I hear war is not the best time for improving your mind. I am rather starting to believe that rumour.”

 

Rain drums against the window.

 

“I was quite certain of my words when I said they won't have you,” Severus says as he stands, and Draco’s eyes close, whether against the words or the sudden cold he has no idea. Perhaps Severus is right. Perhaps he'll be lucky. But luck is a bastard of a cushion to rest upon and perhaps offers no assurance. He picks his trousers from the floor.

 

“Won’t they?”

 

Severus eyes him like he eyes his ingredients, like he’s evaluating the best way to preserve him. The itch to hide crawls up Draco’s neck but a hand closes around his chin, and Severus tips his face up, runs his thumb along his lip. “If they come to you–”

 

“–as you know they will.”

 

“If they come, you tell them you’re mine. You damn your pride and tell them you’re mine.”

 

Draco only stares. He knows he will. He also knows that when need and panic vanish there’s only more room for shame. Yet he stands still as Severus leans down, licks a line of blood off his throat. One can live with shame, he thinks. It’s blood you can’t live without.

Severus’ teeth sink into his skin.


End file.
